The Handyman Again Ch. 1

It's been a while since last I wrote. Now I'm retired from my regular labors in the world of business and depend full time on my Handyman business. Although there have been very few opportunities like the one that occurred with Pam (the occasion of my first writing) I've had some chances to be alone with some really foxy ladies while I earth quake proofed their water heaters, resecured their kitchen cabinets to the ceiling, put new outdoor carpeting down on their porches, put up security lights in their yards, etc. But there was always some condition where I would not have been interested in them even if they had shown interest in me, or they were so engrossed in whatever activity they were about that my presence in their space barely registered on them.

Sad to say, but there were other women that it seemed might welcome some form of advance from me but they could not possibly have interested me. Some because they were too much older than I (58 and trying to hold, there) or because of their tendencies toward booze, sloppiness, or personal hygiene. All of this may sound very dark and judgmental on my part, but when you have been in as many houses, apartments, and trailers as I have over the years, you get a quick sense of the people who live there by how clean they keep lower cabinets, the base of toilets, under and behind refrigerators and stoves, and closets. So I have really looked forward to working for some folks (pronounced 'women') only to find that making it with them would probably mean dusty, rumpled, or crude sex. That hard up I'm not. But surprises can sneak up on you so fast sometimes, that you wonder how the hell it happened. Take a recent day at Home Depot, where I spend a lot of time buying stuff for my customers.

Not for the first time, a voice behind me asked if I could help with doorknobs and dead bolts. I guess the mistake is easy to make even though I don't wear the stores orange apron. It's a combination of my clipboard, the perpetual tape measure on my belt, my apparent age, and the fact that I move purposefully since I know the store aisles well. Any way, I turned to see if she was talking to me, and she was. Nice looking forty-something, well dressed, nice shape, pleasant smile. Walking back a few steps to her I explained that I was an independent Handyman, not a store employee, but that I might be able to help her if she wished. The look of relief was evident and she accepted, gladly, my offer of help. She smelled good now that I was next to her, and I realized that she was quite a tight and well-presented package of femininity. I decided I wanted to help this lady; as much as possible.

She explained that her dilemma was two fold. First, she wanted dead bolts on her front and back doors since she didn't feel safe now that she was living alone. (Light goes on in Handyman's head.) Second, she wanted to replace all of the plain doorknobs in her house with fancier new ones. And there might be some other things that needed fixing. (Three-way light in Handyman's head switches to brightest setting.) I explained that changing the interior doorknob sets was fairly simple, but that installing the dead bolts required special tools. The look in her eyes as she looked up at me made me feel like a Shining Knight. We discussed various available doorknob sets and finally I gave her my business card, saying that if she wished I could help her with her installations. No mater how long I live I will probably never learn to tell the difference between the practiced look of a woman who has found a Neanderthal to do her bidding and a woman who has truly been rescued from a dilemma and is grateful. Maybe there is no way to tell except to grab your bear skin clothes and step into their cave. I sure hoped to have a chance to find out, in this case, if the lady was sincere or a manipulator (notice how the first three letters of "sincere" is "sin" and of "manipulator" is "man".)

About two days later I got home from a fairly easy job wall papering a bedroom to find a message on my answer machine. "Hello, John. This is Tamara Benning. We met by the dead bolts and you indicated you would be able to help me out. Please give me a call at 555-1212. Thanks, John." Oh, boy! This I now looked forward to. Lilting voice. Two days delay so as to not appear anxious (if she had any designs on me, too, that is) or deliberative to give the impression of being business like or very busy, or fifty other connotations. But I was enthusiastic to return her call. So I dialed...

One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Damn! I was probably going to get her answering machine. "Hello".

"This is Tamara, John. I'm glad you had the time to return my call. I definitely need help with all of these doors and a cabinet drawer in my kitchen and some other stuff" she breathed. I, of course, began melting. If she was simply a manipulator I was willing to be manipulated by the woman's voice I was hearing and the woman's body that I remembered very clearly. Light brown hair, medium long, 115 pounds, 34-28-36, light skin, not too much make-up, smelled totally edible, looked scrumptious, and now sounded ready to be tasted and eaten.

"Unless you have something I'm not really qualified to do other than the items we've talked about, I'd be glad to help any way I can." Cool, John. Business like. Probably she couldn't hear the tremor of sexual excitement in your business-like voice. Right.

"John. I don't know what your schedule is, although I'm sure you're very busy, but I can be home all day the day after tomorrow", she said right into my very ear, and then added, "Is that too soon for you?"

As calmly as was possible considering my age and state of mind I croaked, "That's fine." But I was at least cognizant enough to realize that she probably didn't want me arriving at 00:01 in the morning so as to have a full 23 hours and 59 minutes with her. Based on that astute male thinking, I continued with, "Is nine in the morning too early or too late for you?"

"I should be bathed and dressed by eight, so can we say eight-thirty, John?"

"Eight-thirty is fine. Can I have your address........" Yes-s-s-s-s! I could help her bathe. Slowly.

She hadn't even asked me about labor rate, although I should be ready with some answer. Not that I don't know my labor rate. But it depends. No, no, not on that! On how difficult various tasks are. The skill and tools required to duplicate out-of-date chair rail or crown molding could not possibly be applied to changing the insides of a toilet assembly. And there is no way I would work for sexual favors. No, way! I work hard at being the best Handyman I possibly can and I work even harder at being the best lover I can. Limited variety-of-women experience does not mean that my little head leads my big head around. Anyway, now all I had to do was make it until 8:30 in the morning, the day after tomorrow. This is something I could do. Now I needed to plan. Make a list of tools I would need. Don't forget the hole saws and spade bits for the dead bolts. Tool pouches are impressive to some folks so I wanted to be sure to take mine. I'd need it anyway. STOP! I'm dithering. Slow down, John. She may just be a nice friendly lady who needs some work done. She may not even realize the impact she has on men generally, and me in particular. I wonder if she has a two-story so I could follow her up the steps and look up under her skirt, at least. A fantasy is better than nothing, after all. Now how long 'till I go there? And my extendible mirror. Not for her skirt, but for seeing around corners and behind things. I don't mean her behind. Well, maybe stream of consciousness got me there, but I may need the mirror anyway. Maybe while I'm laying on my back looking up under the kitchen sink for a drip I can get her to step over me to turn the faucets on and off. That would be way better than nothing. Probably she's recently widowed and has no thought for casual sex with some ding-a-ling Handyman. Now how much longer is it until my appointment?